Interlude
by Macx
Summary: part of a series. Relationships amongst demons and angels are... complicated, to say the least. Reloaded fic. Apparently disappeared off this site...


It was one of those comfortable, quiet evenings, spent together, a mug of hot tea close by, a few biscuits on the low table, and a classic black and white movie playing on the telly. Crowley couldn't remember a better day, a better moment, than having Aziraphale with him, so warm and pliant against him, the unique smell of his angel around him, his aura calm and even.

Crowley's hands were underneath the too large sweater, a warm, washed out affair in formerly burgundy red. He had no idea where Aziraphale had got the sweater from, but it was a lot better than his tweed suits and white shirts, or those hand-knit pullovers he had in his wardrobe. Aziraphale was naked under the sweater, which meant Crowley's palm was in very intimate contact with warm, angelic skin.

Nice.

Very, very nice.

Crowley's eyes were closed in complete trust that he was safe with his angel, his face turned to bury into the sweater, and one leg was thrown over Aziraphale's. He wasn't watching the classic movie, he was experiencing Aziraphale.

The demon's senses widened unconsciously as he drifted off into the sensation of his angel. He listened to the muffled heartbeat, smiling a little to himself. He liked heartbeats. They were reassuring, comfortable, reminding him that yes, they were truly alive, not just a simple existence. They were more than supernatural beings stuffed into a human shell.

Much more.

Their hearts beat and they could breathe, though not breathing had its advantages from time to time. Not right now, though.

Crowley listened to the breaths, felt the chest rise and fall, and with the heartbeat, it was a wonderful sensation. So simple, every human did it, but for him, it was wonder. Totally surreal.

Fingers slid through his hair, played with the shorter ones at the back of his neck, and Crowley felt goose bumps rise. His own hands involuntarily started to explore the warm skin of his lover. Smooth and soft, yet still strong and firm. So very much like Aziraphale. The angel was so much more than met the eye. He was more than an angel; he had never been a true angel. Not like humanity perceived them anyway.

He was divine, no doubt about it. He was celestial in origin, but angelic… he wasn't holier than thou, he wasn't utterly good and benevolent. Aziraphale's inner bastard raised its head sometimes and even gave Crowley a run for his money. Aziraphale was witty and sarcastic, he was powerful and still vulnerable sometimes, he was vicious if need be, gentle if there was need for that, and for Crowley he was everything.

The fingers caressed one temple and he hummed softly, almost purring at the sensations coursing through him.

"Are you even watching?" Aziraphale's soft voice reached his ears.

"Hm," he mumbled an affirmative.

He knew Casablanca inside out. He could quote every line. Currently it was an audio play for him.

He listened to the chuckle, as it rumbled through Aziraphale's body, as it moved muscle that shifted underneath Crowley, and he didn't really want any of this to end.

"Do you ever think about their relationship?"

"Bergman and Bogart?" Crowley grunted.

"No, silly. Michael and Beelzebub."

Snake eyes cracked open and Crowley twisted his head slightly to look at his lover. "Why should I?"

"They are like us."

"Are not," came the sullen reply.

"An angel and a demon loving each other?" Aziraphale asked.

"They don't love each other, they fuck each other, angel," Crowley clarified.

He felt the familiar aura grow warmer at the words and refused to react to it. Despite the years, Crowley still had a bit of trouble with the L-word, or talking about what Aziraphale meant to him. But the angel knew. He had this knack, this incredible knack…

"I'm not so sure," was the soft reply.

Crowley blinked, then frowned. "What?"

"I think something is changing for them. Something… that was there for us as well."

"You think Michael's in love with a demon?"

"I think Beelzebub is coming to that realization. Michael is fighting the very idea."

Crowley huffed, stroking over his angel's side. "They're not like us," he insisted again.

"No," Aziraphale confirmed and breathed a kiss over his forehead. "They can never be like us."

The demon swallowed a little, unconsciously tightening his embrace.

What were they? he thought.

Crowley refused to think too deeply about his relationship with Aziraphale; at least that was what he told himself. Too bad he never listened to himself.

Angels and demons didn't mix. But for over six millennia they had mixed, more or less. They had grown acquainted with each other, accustomed to the presence of an Enemy, had grown close, had talked about things no demon or angel in his sane mind would actually reveal to his Enemy, and they had become friends.

Good friends.

Close friends.

Intimate friends.

Crowley nuzzled deeper into the sweater, feeling Aziraphale's touch, his tender caress. So very angelic, but also very much his angel. There was no one like him. There would never be one like him.

Whatever Beelzebub felt or didn't feel for Michael, it didn't come close to what burned inside Crowley, what he couldn't express in words but did in every gesture, every look, every touch. Their bond was ancient, had existed ever since the Fall, ever since the Original Sin. It had undergone all kinds of rigors and tests and ups and downs. It was by now unbreakable.

He couldn't imagine his ex-boss having these emotions that Crowley had fought and feared for so long. Sure, the lust had been ever-present and lust was very demonic. But love? Something so soft and yet so strong, so much more powerful than any kind of demonic lust could be? No, Crowley decided, Beelzebub couldn't know this. Their relationship was young; Aziraphale and Crowley… they had the experience of several failures, of fights, or arguments, of making up, of drinking themselves into oblivion days in a row, and of a trust founded on all that.

Crowley pushed the sweater up and his lips trailed over the skin exposed to his touch. Aziraphale's hand rested on his head, threading into his hair.

"Dear," he breathed, a soft plea, a warm verbal embrace.

No, no one could have what he had with his angel. No one could have Aziraphale.

"Mine," he murmured.

Aziraphale whispered a name and it thrummed through him. His true name. The power of his soul, shivering as the angel used it so lovingly, and Crowley closed his eyes, melting against the warm body underneath. He belonged to Aziraphale, body and soul and spirit.

"Yours," he added. "Don't care about the others."

"We should. They will be around now."

Crowley muttered a curse.

"Dear," the angel chastised, tugging gently at his hair. "They are special."

"Not to me."

Aziraphale was silent, but the silence told Crowley that the angel wasn't happy about his reply.

"Okay, okay, so they are a pain in the ass most of the time, they both have something against me, but they do have their use…"

Aziraphale tousled his hair. "They're just at the beginning of a very complicated relationship. So were we once."

"We never had a complicated relationship! It was quite easy. You angel, I demon. I do evil, you thwart me. Easy."

"And then we had the Arrangement… and we cared for each other… and we fell in love," Aziraphale added softly.

Crowley was silent. "Yes," he murmured finally. "We did… All of that… And you think… they will, too?"

"In a few thousand years," Aziraphale replied lightly.

"A few thousand?"

"It took us that long."

"You maybe."

"Dear."

He muttered something under his breath. It wasn't that either of them had really made the first step until after the Near-Apocalypse. All the times before... it had been like a very long foreplay.

Crowley let his hand run over the warm skin again, cheek against stomach, letting the heat seep in.

Michael and Beelzebub. Like them. He felt revulsion and amusement in once. Well, as long as they didn't come and strangle him again… he would be okay with that.

The angel looked bad.

There was no other word for it. Michael looked rather… undone, even though he appeared his usual self. White-blond hair, blue eyes, slightly tanned skin. But the hair had lost its vitality, the blue eyes were dull, and there were lines of exhaustion in the handsome face.

Michael was drinking an extra-strong coffee, with a lot of sugar, and when Beelzebub stepped up behind him, the smile he received was far from the usual, bright one he usually got.

"Hey," he said and leaned down, brushing their lips together.

The response was as tired as the whole angel.

"Hey."

Beelzebub looked at the strong coffee, raising an eyebrow. He placed his own Latte on the table top.

"Bad?" he asked.

The angel chuckled and ran a shaky hand through his hair. "You could say that. We had a glitch in the system. You don't happen to have something to do with that?"

Beelzebub didn't even crack a joke, just shook his head. "No. We keep out of your system. Ours is problematic enough."

Michael sighed softly. "Oh well…"

The demon regarded him critically. Angels didn't sleep as a rule, but Michael did when they were together, and right now he looked ready to keel over. Angels could exhaust themselves, but to reach this level, the archangel had probably been without rest and recharge for a long time.

"Let's go," Beelzebub said when they had emptied their hot drinks, and Michael followed him silently.

Beelzebub gazed at the sleeping angel in his arms. The blond hair hung into the closed eyes, the features were relaxed, though they still showed the stress of the last weeks. They were both naked, but aside from a few kisses, nothing had happened. Michael had fallen asleep almost immediately when they had hit the mattress.

The demon played with the silky hair, smiling to himself.

So trusting.

So utterly trusting.

He could do terrible things to the angel while he slept, but that had never crossed his mind. He could hurt Michael so badly, through their sexual encounters, when they were simply cuddling together, when he delicately ran sharp claws over soft skin… so many opportunities. But the mere thought to mutilate this perfection was… sick.

"What happened to me?" he whispered, barely loud enough for anyone to hear. "What did you do to me, angel?"

There was no answer and Beelzebub feared it anyway.

Michael woke to the feeling of utter relaxation. He was still sleepy, lazy, almost dozing when he returned to consciousness, but he felt much better than the last weeks. He blinked his eyes open and stretched, muscles protesting a little, but it felt good.

Great, actually.

He had been tense, sore, with his temper getting the better of him more often than not since his fellow archangels had been close to incapable when it came to trouble shooting. He had been involved in menial things throughout the system crash and it had kept him from his usual duties, which had piled up.

He had never been more relieved to be able to leave for earth than when the crisis had been mastered. His conversations through emails with Beel had been brief, almost unemotional, and the only time he had written more than three sentences had been a rant.

It had made him feel bad the moment he had pushed the 'send' button.

But now he was here and so was Beel.

Michael turned and discovered that the bed was empty and that apparently no one had slept on the other side.

Frowning, he sat up, taking in his nude state, the clothes thrown into a corner of the room, and the silence. He got up and walked out of the bedroom, still very much naked, following the unmistakable sensation of his lover's aura. The moment he glanced at the clock, he paled.

What?

It couldn't… no!

"Slept well?"

The deep voice with its dark, sometimes sinister infliction tore him out of his shock and he blinked at the semi-naked form of his lover. Beelzebub was only dressed in a pair of shorts, his midnight black wings were out, and he looked like he had spent some hours sunbathing. The sunglasses pushed up onto his forehead were a dead giveaway. The demon was smiling, showing even, white teeth, and Michael tried to find his tongue.

"Uh…"

"Not quite awake yet, I gather," Beelzebub answered his question.

He wrapped an arm around Michael's waist and pulled him into a small kiss. The angel felt the warmth of his skin against his own, smelled the sun on it, and he opened his lips to let the demon deepen the contact.

"How long?" he finally asked, dreading the answer.

"Almost a day."

"Dear Lord…"

Beelzebub winced and sighed a little. Michael shot him an apologetic look.

"You were burned out, angel," the demon murmured and nibbled at one ear.

Michael closed his eyes a little and enjoyed the tender contact.

"You dropped dead to the world the moment we came here."

"Oh… sorry… I… it wasn't my intention."

A gentle bite was the answer. "You needed it."

"It was supposed to be our time, Beel, not a sleep-over," Michael argued and looked into the blood red eyes that danced merrily. "I doubt you had planned to watch me sleep!"

He was silenced by a kiss again. "I like watching you, Mike," Beelzebub whispered throatily. "I like holding you in my arms. And I like spending time with you, even if you're asleep throughout the first day. I doubt we could have had a lot of fun with you burned out and ready to keel over, but keeping yourself awake by force. It was good for you. That's what counts."

Michael stared at his demonic counterpart, dumbstruck. He didn't dare to read between the lines, to interpret more than there was. The possible truth made him want to run.

"Slept well?" Beelzebub murmured.

"Very."

"Breakfast?"

Michael smiled ruefully. "More like lunch, hm?"

The demon smiled. "Whatever you want. We can go out, but we can also have delivery."

Michael let his hands stroke over the beautiful black feathers at the roots of the demon's wings, feeling him shiver.

"I want to stay here."

"Delivery then."

"We could miracle it…"

"Delivery," Beelzebub insisted and the archangel only smiled.


End file.
